Chapter Thirteen: The Troubles of Young Cheng Xiaoyu

Of course, Cheng Xiaoyu wouldn’t bother with such childish antics. He had reached a point in life where neither joy nor sorrow could sway him easily. Yet that didn’t mean he didn’t care about the upcoming arts performance—after all, words once spoken are like water spilled; he certainly didn’t want to run laps, especially since December in Shanghai still carried a chill.

But at this moment, he had no real solution. He wasn’t foolish; he knew simply playing the piano wasn’t going to cut it. He needed a new approach to pass this test. The real trouble was that he had no one to help him now, making things much more difficult. It made him miss his bandmates—the mischievous friends who rehearsed together, rushed from gig to gig, enjoyed barbecue and beer late into the night, played games until dawn, and serenaded the girls beneath the university dormitory windows.

Cheng Xiaoyu walked through a silent alley, the plane trees on the street shedding yellow leaves that crunched beneath his feet. Not far away, an elderly man pushed a cart selling roasted sweet potatoes. Couples walked hand in hand, sharing the same scarf, sweet and warm in the late autumn afternoon. The gentle sunlight filtered through the tall buildings, chasing away Cheng Xiaoyu’s solitary shadow. He looked up and saw an airplane gliding across the pale blue sky—another traveler returning to a warm home. In that instant, Cheng Xiaoyu felt the world was so vibrant, every ordinary thing so beautiful, and he couldn't help but smile as he recalled those happy days.

With his eyes reddening, Cheng Xiaoyu patted his head and shook it hard, trying to shake off the tangled memories of his past life. He told himself softly, “Instead of longing for the past, I should seize the present. I’ll live more brilliantly, so those I can never see again won’t need to miss me.”

Arriving at Fudan’s music department, Cheng Xiaoyu decided not to dwell on the arts performance for now, but to focus on his piano practice. After all, thirty-five yuan an hour was a luxury not to be wasted. He greeted Uncle Huang, the middle-aged man who watched over the piano rooms, and went into his pre-booked room. Suppressing his restless thoughts, Cheng Xiaoyu began his usual routine, playing Canon, Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, and Clementi’s piano studies.

After training his fingers to adapt to various technical demands, Cheng Xiaoyu would play some of Beethoven’s and Mozart’s Piano Sonatas, Liszt’s “Dreams of Love” No. 3, and “Hungarian Rhapsody” No. 11. As for those high-difficulty, flashy pieces, he had never touched them; he knew it wasn’t the right time yet.

Today, Cheng Xiaoyu deliberately finished his classical practice early, playing aimless fragments of pop piano from memory to let his mind wander over the arts performance. For him, it wasn’t just about answering class leader Li Liwei’s challenge—it was a trial for himself, a chance to see how far he could go in music now. A perfectionist at heart, he could not accept anything less than stunning success.

Cheng Xiaoyu knew that pure classical piano was not his strong suit; even if he could play Rachmaninoff’s “Piano Concerto No. 3,” ranked the most difficult, how many would truly appreciate it? As music director, he understood the importance of captivating an audience; the higher the artistry, the less it resonated with the masses. Besides, he was no match for Su Yuxi at this point.

If he only played beautiful, familiar pop piano pieces, the impact would certainly fall short—without a full symphony orchestra, he couldn't achieve the effect he wanted.

Piano plus singing? Cheng Xiaoyu considered this and decided to give it a try, though he wasn’t sure what state his current voice was in. He attempted to play Jay Chou’s “Sunny Day,” a song he loved in his previous life, and had once transcribed for guitar. Now, he could play it effortlessly on piano, thanks to his extraordinary skills—almost magical in memorizing and transcribing music. The piano accompaniment alone felt lacking in expression, but for now, he had no other options. On the second run, he began to sing.

In his previous life, Cheng Xiaoyu hadn’t received systematic vocal training; he had learned everything by trial and error, from primitive vocalization to later lessons on combined chest and abdominal breathing with professional teachers.

To learn singing, one must first understand the three basic elements of vocal music—pitch, volume, and timbre; know what breath means, what breath support is, how to produce sound, how to breathe, and how to resonate. The human natural voice has limits (for men, usually up to the second octave, for women, the third—though this varies; we can sing up to A2, B2, third, third, even sixth octave, but professionally these are considered mixed voice, and the sixth octave, rarely reached, is usually falsetto).

Take "Love Even Unto Death" as an example—the challenge lies in the chorus where the lyrics are sung at consecutive high notes (phrases like "even at the end, love" and "even at death, love"), all at the third octave, with no compromise in intensity. The song has eight phrases at the third octave, forty-one at the second, twenty-five at B2, forty-two at A2, twenty-five at the second, totaling about two hundred high notes out of three hundred sixty-eight lyrics—more than half exceed the limit of male natural voice (the highest note in "Tibetan Plateau" is #5). Without learning proper technique, it’s impossible to sing this song—sing, not shout; singing uses resonance in the chest and head.

Of course, singing isn’t just about high notes, nor does singing high notes well mean the song is well sung, but undeniably, showy high-note songs are the easiest to impress listeners. Many techniques, like coloratura high notes (for men, it’s falsetto tenor, akin to female coloratura), Mariah Carey’s famous whistle register, and high-note runs, cannot be mastered without practice. Scientific training not only broadens the vocal range but also opens more parts of the body for resonance.

In this life, Cheng Xiaoyu’s voice was decent—rough, husky, not belonging to the clear, bright type, but its torn and stable texture gave it enough thickness, though the range was not wide enough for true height. A few days’ training would never be enough to perform a truly impressive song on stage; broadening one’s range isn’t a matter of days. He now had theoretical knowledge, but singing also depended on natural talent. Mariah Carey, for instance, can reach the sixth octave, and it’s hard to imagine she only had simple vocal lessons as a child (mainly sound production and resonance). Still, that’s an exceptional case, and let’s not forget her mother was the lead soprano at the New York Opera.

Though the song’s notes weren’t extremely high, singing it well was still very difficult; he had to master breath control, especially in the chorus, where the transition point forces a change in voice—without changing, it’s suffocating; with a rough change, it’s easy to crack. Smooth transitions were essential. Right now, he couldn’t handle even this relatively less difficult song, let alone others. Clearly, the path of singing and playing piano was a dead end; twelve days of preparation was an insurmountable obstacle.

In his previous life, Cheng Xiaoyu danced pop, popping, and locking quite well, but with his current physique, he feared his dancing would bring laughter rather than awe. Plus, he’d need special music; if it were a solo, the effect might not be better than martial arts; if it were a group dance, where could he find teammates?

All things considered, the challenge of Cheng Xiaoyu wanting to amaze at the New Year's performance was extraordinary; he’d be facing not just his own university’s acts, but also those from three other prestigious schools. If the only requirement were to get his act selected, that would be easy for him, but his standards for himself were far higher.

As he drifted, absent-mindedly playing "Croatian Rhapsody," a flash of inspiration crossed his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Just then, Wang Huasheng called, saying he was waiting at the school’s back gate. No solution had emerged yet, so Cheng Xiaoyu left the piano room and headed home. Even in the car, he kept muttering, “It has to be shocking, it has to be shocking!” making Su Yuxi glance at him more than once.

That evening, Wang Ou called—the campus gossip prince already knew about Cheng Xiaoyu’s bet with Li Liwei. Wang Ou, showing no loyalty to his new friend, expressed deep concern, and affectionately suggested over the phone, “Why not skip piano practice after school and come running with me?”

Cheng Xiaoyu, puzzled, asked, “What, are you going to compete in the hundred meters with me?”

Wang Ou replied calmly, “No, this way your streaking time will be a little shorter!”

Cheng Xiaoyu sneered, “Wang Da Zhuang, if I don’t wipe your phone of all those private photos, I’ll take your surname!”

Wang Ou laughed, “Don’t worry, Cheng Fatty, I’ll make sure Li Liwei lets you keep a pair of briefs. As your brother, that’s the least I can do!”

Cheng Xiaoyu cursed, “Damn you, Wang Da Zhuang, get ready to be taught a lesson—your big brother’s on his way!”

Wang Ou immediately acted coy, “Your Majesty, I simply can’t do it!”

Cheng Xiaoyu gagged and hung up, soon receiving a text from Wang Ou with a smiley face and two words: “Good luck.”